We Are Never Heroes
by SilverMedals
Summary: Ten stories from prompts from "The Quest of a Hero" at Caesar's Palace.
1. First Meal

When he is sure he is no longer being followed, he tucks himself away into a bush and opens his backpack. _Slowly and quietly_, he tells himself, listening for the sound of rustling leaves.

A moment later, he digs into the pack, laying his findings out across the dirt. His mouth waters as first he finds a plum. He clutches it in his hand, gazing upon the perfect purple shine, the smoothness of the skin, the flawless round shape. . .This will forever be his prized possession, he decides as he places it in a small leather pouch.

He digs blindly back into the largest pocket and comes up with a cut across his palm. "Ouch!" he exclaims, drawing his hand to his chest. He clasps his uninjured hand over his mouth as he realizes his mistake. His heart races. He stills, wide eyes darting around. There is nothing, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

Carefully, he reaches in and draws out a knife. The tip is curved and cruel, the handle ornate. He gently presses the point of it into his finger and one droplet of blood makes its way carefully down his hand.

He grits his teeth as he realizes that his left hand is covered entirely with blood. "Shit," he whispers, touching the long cut with a shaking hand. He was doing so well. He has a backpack with food and a bottle of water and weapons - and now he fears he may not be able to use his hand.

He remembers Atala's bitter words: "Infections can kill. Most of the time, in the Hunger Games, they do." She'd smiled (it was more of a smirk, really) as if it were all a fairy tale. Surely Capitolites make connections with the tributes. Surely they _grieve _them sometimes.

A single tear slides down his face. He's not going to be remembered. Cameras may have been glancing at him periodically before, but now that the bloodbath has ceased, everyone is going to see him cry. They're replaying his sheer stupidity right now, and Caesar Flickerman is laughing at his reaction of fear and surprise when his hand comes up bloody.

He reaches into the pack once more and finds one slice of bread with a small capsule of jam. Putting the food items in the pouch, he stands up. He swings the backpack over his shoulder.

* * *

Later that night, his hand starts to burn. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry any longer. He clenches his teeth and holds back a whimper. He has to be strong, like he always told Cambria he would.

He falls to his knees, remembering Cambria. Her bright blue eyes, her smiling face, her bright laugh. She is only ten. There must be horror flashing across her face as she realizes that her brother will die.

He produces a match from the front pocket of his backpack and draws it across a rough stone. In the dim light, he can see pus and dirt lining his wound, red streaks exploding from it.

"You see that?" he whispers, facing a knot in the tree. There are cameras everywhere. "That's an infection. I'm going to win for you, Cambria." He turns away. They don't broadcast everything, but who else could be doing something more exciting? It doesn't matter, anyway. He said it. He meant it. Cambria might see it. She might not.

The sky lights up with the Panem crest flashing across the sky, the anthem playing. It all sounds much louder on television. First in the sky is the boy from District three. He can remember the boy's name: Atticus. Atticus had screamed his name just hours ago in the blood bath. He'd kept moving forward. He could have saved his life.

Both tributes from five died, which wasn't unexpected. They almost always do.

He closes his eyes and leans against the tree trunk. The air is still sweltering, and his breaths are heavy.

He pours the capsule of jelly onto the bread and folds it, shoveling it into his face. Food feels so good. His stomach still aches, but as he spreads the jam over his mouth with his tongue, he breathes a sigh of satisfaction.

He holds the plum in front of his face, turning it in his hands. Meals in the arena are not like meals in District Eight, but his first meal is delicious. He pierces the skin of the plum with his teeth, grinning as the flavor explodes in his mouth.

Later, he throws the pit away from him and curls up by a tree. He cries for Atticus, although he isn't sure why. His stomach still feels empty. After the triumph of his first meal, he's certain that he will never last.

**An Author's Note:**

**This was for the ''The Quest of a Hero'' challenge at Caesar's Palace. This is led by Zero and consists of ten levels (quests) where you're presented with options (which will then lead to your prompt), each of which has various advantages and disadvantages. There are classes and word count minimums and upgrades and it's very fun and complex. Check it out! The prompt was "First meal".**


	2. Cornered

The sea breeze wafted through the air on a day late in May. A little girl pulled a handful of coins from her satchel and skipped down Carrish Lane with a smile bright on her face. She turned and skipped right into Miller's Bake Shop, rebuckling her bag.

"Hello, dearest Annie. The usual?" asked the baker, reaching behind him for a cream-filled lemon scone.

"Actually, Mr. Miller, my father demanded I try one of your famous iced cinnamon rolls!" Annie exclaimed, resting her arms on the too-high counter. She dropped a coin into the jar and pulled a butterscotch candy from its dish.

"Ah, I baked up a fresh batch just an hour ago!" Mr. Miller said, wrapping one in wax paper and placing it on the counter. "Are you eating a butterscotch?" he asked, tapping her on the head.

"Yes, sir!" Annie said, laughing. She stood on her tippy-toes and took the bun from the counter.

"That'll be eighty credits," Mr. Miller said, holding out his hand. Annie dropped the coins into his hand and turned and left the bake shop, filling her mouth with warm, cinnamony happiness.

She sat with her feet tucked under her skirt on a bench by Ebry Park. She pulled a book from her satchel and opened it to page forty-three, where she'd left off on chapter three.

When she just had two bites of her roll left, she placed a bookmark in her book and stood up, skipping down Carrish Lane once more. She still smiled, and as she passed Miller's, she gave him a grin and a thumbs up. He laughed heartily from behind the window and waved goodbye to her.

She turned onto Elm Circle and clutched her bag close to her chest; Elm Circle was dangerous, but it was the only way home. She walked quickly down the cobbled street, trying to keep a pep in her step.

Elm Circle always smelled damp and fishy, like the pier. Behind her, Annie heard footsteps - at least four people were behind her. Her eyes wide with panic, she walked faster, pressing tighter her satchel to her body.

She didn't dare look behind her. The footsteps became louder. They were boys, faster and older than her. She glanced behind her. They were year nine boys and they were smirking at her.

She broke out in a full sprint, her blue sundress fluttering in the wind behind her. She darted into an alleyway, breathing heavily, tucking her book back in her satchel. The footsteps paused.

"I think she went onto Maple Road," said one boy. He spat on the ground, leaning against the building beside the alley.

"Nah," said another, chuckling a bit. "She's a merchant girl. She doesn't know these streets. She's probably down Rochester Street."

Annie whimpered, tucking her knees to her chest. She pressed her back into the wall.

"Wait," the first boy said. He threw his head back and laughed. Annie's heart pounded in her chest and she buried her face in her knees, stifling her screams. "Told you she didn't know these streets."

:

They stared at her. She could feel eight eyes piercing her skull and she looked up, whimpering. One of them spit on the ground again. They surrounded her, and she pushed herself further into the alleyway corner. "What's your name?" he asked, gripping one of her braids.

"An - an - Annie Cresta," she stammered, instinctively grabbing hold of her other dark plait.

"See, merchant girl. What did I tell y-"

"Shut up, Carrison," the one holding her hair interrupted. "All right, _Annie_, got any crackers?" Saliva sprayed over her face and she clenched her eyes shut.

"I - I - I don't know what. . ." She drew closer to her chest and looked up, confusion flashing across her face.

His grip around her hair tightened and he started to twirl it, taunting her. "Y'know, _mackerels_?" he asked, his hand slinking across her satchel.

"I don't under-" He pulled hard on her braid and she screamed, her face twisting in pain. The boy's face contorted into a sadistic smile as he glanced at her.

"Money, you imbecile. _Give _it to me." He gritted his teeth and toyed with the clasp on her bag.

"N - no, you can't have it!"

The clasp broke loose and a small piece of metal flew onto the ground. He reached in and pulled out a single coin. "A merchant girl has more money than just a ten-credit coin, doesn't she?"

She stood up abruptly, still pressed against the faded brick wall. The sun burned into her eyes even in the late afternoon on a spring day.

Annie Cresta arrived at her home on Meadow street without a single credit in her satchel twelve minutes later.


	3. Warmth

She crawled through the forest, clenching her teeth to keep from whimpering. She leaned up against a tree, tears filling her eyes. For the first time, she looked at the gaping slash on her thigh. It was bright red and the blood around it had dried to a sickening brown color. She couldn't remember how it had happened - only running away and the pain. She remembered the cold, green eyes of the girl who had done it, her teammate, her ally, the pretty young District One girl she had trusted. And she remembered the sapphires and the cobalt crystals emblazoned in the handle of the weapon. Not the length or the blade. Flashing through her mind she could only see the jewels on the weapon, the ladylike, unscarred hands of the girl who held it.

She squeezed her eyes shut and cupped her hand over her mouth, one loud sob escaping from her lips. She heard leaves crunch beneath someone's foot, perhaps a long way away, but Becke just let the tears drop to the ground, washing over the wound. The salt stung and she drew back, shaking. She placed her hands together in front of her and closed her eyes. "Oh, Lord, of the sea and of all things living, please take mercy-" she drew in a ragged breath and tears dropped down her cheeks."-Oh, Lord, I don't want to die. Not now, not here," she breathed.

The crunching of the leaves got closer as Becke buried her face in her knees. "Are you praying to your sea god?" the blonde girl sneered, swinging a sword in her hand. The blue gemstones caught the light seeping through the trees and danced bright shadows on the ground. "Or your fish god?"

Becke shot her head up and whimpered, pressing her back into the bark of the oak tree. "W-we only have one g-god in Four," she stuttered, wiping a tear from her eyes. "They t-tell us about Him in the c-career training centers."

"You're not a Career," the girl remarked. "You're a pathetic excuse for a Four girl." Laughing to herself, she ran a finger down the length of the blade, nonchalant, as if the blood flowing down her finger wasn't an object of pain in the slightest.

"I-I was born and r-raised as a career," Becke retorted, but the girl laughed at her. She set her jaw and clenched her fists. "Stop it, Hadley. You're barely a Career girl yourself," she seethed.

Hadley raised her eyebrows, somewhat humored by Becke's remark. "I have _been _a career for seventeen years," she said, standing up straighter, looking dignified. "But you will never be one."

Becke didn't have the energy to shout back. She just scrambled to her feet and ran as fast as she could, squealing from the pain every step. She fell a few seconds later, clutching her leg in pain. "You are pathetic." Hadley chortled and raised her sword. "And I don't much like pathetic people."

Becke tried to scream but her breath was caught in her throat. She tried to crawl away but all she could do was place a hand over the gash on her thigh. She tried to pray but her hands felt frozen in place. She felt helpless and she knew she was going to die. "Please," she breathed, her eyes red and her cheeks stained with tears.

Hadley stood motionless in front of her, sword just inches from the girl's throat. She stuck it in the ground behind her and knelt in front of Becke. "Actually, I think the rest of the alliance might like to watch this spectacle," she said with a smile. She gestured for Becke to climb to her feet.

Becke stood quickly, looking up at Hadley, baffled. "I-I don't understand," she said quietly, hastily wiping tears from her eyes. She was stained with dirt and blood and tears. She felt like a beggar, not the rich girl she was back in District Four.

"Cass and Fleur and Julienne want to watch you die. How can you not understand?" spat Hadley. "It's so simple, you religious imbecile." Hadley's cold words stung across her face but Becke said nothing more, just pursed her lips and stood in reluctant silence.

They walked slowly through the woods, Becke limping, and Hadley's fingernails digging into her captive's shoulder. When they reached the edge of the meadow, Becke glanced back at the girl. Her face was blank, no emotion flashing across it. For a moment, Hadley gazed up into the sky through the leaves, no longer looking at Becke.

Becke turned rapidly, clawing at the girl's pristine, unscarred face. Hadley growled and kicked forward, but Becke was already darting towards the clearing. Her leg burned with every step she took, and even as she willed herself to run through the pain, she knew she was going to fall. The blonde girl drew her sword and chased after Becke full-speed. The smaller girl knew she had three seconds before she, half-limping, would be overtaken.

She mouthed the numbers silently - _three, two, one _\- and braced herself. As soon as _one _formed on her lips, she glanced behind her to see a pair of angry green eyes and a glinting sword blade. She didn't feel it, not at first, but she saw the blood trickling down her side as she glanced down.

Hadley smiled. "I've always hated you," she said softly. Becke clutched her side, tears filling her eyes. It would start to hurt soon, and she would double over screaming in pain until she bled out.

Slowly, Becke stepped backwards, her hands shaking and tears filling her eyes. She let out a muffled cry of pain and the last thing she saw before she squeezed her eyes shut was Hadley's smug smirk.

She fell eight seconds later, her hand hanging out into the grassy clearing, the sunlight flooding into the arena reaching her hand, and she let out her last breath as the warmth kindled her hand. And for one single moment, it felt like home: wrapped up in the sunlight, warm.


	4. Trust

He sat on a wooden bench against the wall, his eyes sweeping the room for nothing in particular. Missy Silvers had asked him to come, asked him to offer guidance after his "miraculous" win. It was three in the morning when she had knocked on his door and told him that he needed to come downtown right this minute and teach this year's volunteer a few things about the trident. He could see her in the corner, holding the trident by the very end of the shaft.

She threw a spear into the center of the target, her eyes fixed on him. She ran her tongue against the back of her teeth, trying to place him. She'd seen the face before. Around town, maybe? No, she'd stared into those eyes a million times and she could tell by his placid expression that he was tired of it all. Hadn't he won a Hunger Games? He was fifteen at most - she was fourteen and after four years of training could never dream of winning - but the experience was clear on his face. His sea-green eyes were as familiar as her brother's. "Isn't that Finnick Odair?" whispered the girl next to her, and Annie's lips parted slightly, because she knew it was.

He stood and slipped along the wall towards Sadie Aster, taking her hand. She opened her eyes wide and for a moment he was sure she would faint. He whispered, "Put your hands in the center of the shaft, right over left," and she obeyed, very clearly suppressing a squeal. He stood behind her, barely an inch taller than the girl, and put his hands over hers. It was all but impossible to show a girl who wanted nothing other than to pull you close and kiss you how to throw a trident.

She watched the spectacle: Sadie lost in his eyes, Finnick very intent on showing her. When Sadie let the trident out of her hand, one prong stuck in the bottom ring of the target and then fell, clattering to the floor with a rather unpleasant noise. Annie bit her lip to hold back a laugh. From ten feet, no one could be _that _bad at throwing a trident into a target. She tried again and again but wasn't listening to his instruction, only gazing into The clock in the square chimed twelve and as they all shuffled out of the door, she shot a quick smile at Finnick, and he smiled warmly back.

For just a split second, his eyes met hers, and as he smiled back at her, her cheeks blushed red. Missy stopped him before he reached the cobbled streets. "Finnick, I think Sadie is really going to grow with your guidance this week before she volunteers," she said calmly, a gentle smile on her face. She reached up to swat a mosquito from her face. "Good work, kid, I'm proud of you." She closed the door behind them and locked it, slipping the key back in her pocket.

Annie bit her lip until the woman walked away. "Sadie Aster's only here because she's rich," she remarked to Finnick. "She shouldn't be allowed to volunteer at all, but Lucia Katier broke her ankle so they took a random lottery." She rolled her eyes and sat against the building, producing a smushed tuna sandwich from her pocket. She unfolded the newspaper around it and took a large bite, watching Finnick slump down next to her.

"That's. . ." he started, with no plan to finish his sentence. "So who are you?" He took a sugar cube from his pocket and placed it on his tongue.

She shot a glance at him. "You just ate a sugar cube," she said, raising her eyebrows.

"Yes. . .I did," he said, the last remnants of the sugar melting over his tongue.

She chuckled. "That's. . ._really _odd," she remarked, pulling a strand of dark hair out of her face. "But I'm Annabeth Cresta."

The syllables danced on his tongue. "Annabeth," he breathed. "That's really pretty."

"And if you call me anything other than Annie, I will cut you," she broke in, shoving the newspaper back in her pocket. He smiled at her and she stood and rolled her eyes. "So why did you choose to watch me eat my sandwich and not Sadie Aster?"

"Well. . .because. . ." he tried to say but trailed off. They started to walk, but he stopped, looking down into her eyes. She was just different. She had the kind of determination no one else had. When she threw the spear, Annie Cresta looked like she was throwing that spear for a reason - a reason you might never know, never care about, but a reason all the same. "You're pretty?" he finished.

She chuckled quietly. "You . . . you are also pretty," Annie returned.

"I mean, Sadie's eighteen, and I'm only, uhm, fifteen, and. . ." he said awkwardly, and as they parted their separate ways, they glanced at each other and smiled, and they thought it might be the last time they would.

It was just past the break of dawn when all of the children swarmed in like a flock of birds. Like clockwork, at five-fifteen, they all took the weapons from their station and started to shoot, throw, and stab.

Annie glanced over at the corner of the room, where a trident was laid against the target. Sadie Aster was not here. With a thin blue ribbon, Annie pulled back her hair tight and wrapped her hand around her spear shaft. Sadie was supposed to volunteer in four days and if she wasn't here by five-thirty, the spot wasn't hers. Two minutes before the clock would strike five-thirty, all the heads were turned towards Sadie's target. The clock ticked loudly, overwhelming their brains, but the door didn't burst open.

Finnick came in at the last second, scanning the room for Sadie Aster. "Where is she?" he asked Annie as he passed her. She shrugged, adjusting her hand hold on the spear. Finnick crept along the wall to Sadie's target, and he took the trident in his hand. It was a light thing, nothing like anything you might ever find in an arena. If she did show up, Sadie Aster was dead.

Missy Silvers came through the side door twelve seconds before five-thirty. "Where's our volunteer?" she asked calmly, looking up at Finnick. He pursed his lips, shrugged, and picked up the silver trident.

Missy sighed. "You're kidding me," she said loudly. "Six days before the Games and I need to train another volunteer!" Everybody shifted awkwardly, not looking at Missy and her rage.

The trainer's eyes scanned the room. Her tongue ran over her teeth as she glanced from a sword-sparring girl to one landing knives in the middle of her target. She took brisk steps between the two and put an arm on each. Finnick turned away.

"Are you ever going to volunteer?" he asked. Annie looked up at him, startled.

"Uh, maybe. . .I don't know. It's not really my choice," she said, still fixated on the target.

"Well, that's not fair," he said back, running his hand down the smooth shaft of the silver trident.

"No, it's not, but I don't care." She wrapped her hand around the spear shaft again and threw it into the target, hard.

"You're good at this," he remarked, leaning against the wall of the training center.

"I've been doing it since I was six," she retorted, even though she really didn't mean to be so snappy.

"Mind letting me teach you the ways of the trident?" he joked, poking a hole in the outer ring of the target with one of the prongs.

"The ways of the trident," she muttered. "Might as well, since I don't see _you _sticking around for very long here." Then, she whispered, "Missy's kind of an ass after the reaping happens."

It was pretty much true - she stopped being nice and oh-so-supportive and turned into this training machine.

He put the trident prongs an inch from her chest and said just a few words: "Do you trust me?"

She nodded and smiled at him, because, for once, she might enjoy training.


	5. Run

She was a very honest girl, so there's only one real thing she never told anybody: She loved to dance. To spin around on the balls of her feet on the old linoleum of the kitchen in her favorite pair of pink socks - the pair her mother made her when she still was sane.

She loved arabesques, too - one time in Twelve Square, they showed a Capitol concert of girls her age doing spins and leaps and beautiful poses and they were _so _flexible. She spun around and leapt and took her hair down and just danced. Danced because she could, danced because it took her mind off of everything that wasn't right. Nothing was ever right, was it? That's why Primrose loved to dance.

Secretly she loved her name but Katniss didn't - Katniss hated the girliness of it all. Katniss hated everything, but Prim loved her dearly, because she was really the only thing she had left in the world. Her mother was not a mother - she was more useless than Buttercup. Katniss had managed to get her a goat, Katniss bought her old dresses from the Hob (they were covered in coal dust but somehow Katniss could tell what cuts would end up with the prettiest spins - Prim never knew how she did it), and Katniss brought dinner home almost every night. That was something she could only respect.

And maybe Prim didn't really love _Katniss _but she loved her dedication and how much Katniss loved her. It was a little bit unfair, but at the age of nine, it didn't really matter to her. Katniss was thirteen and did more than her mother had ever done. Not as much as their father, who had exploded (this wasn't how Prim remembered it, but how the boys at school liked to tease her whenever the students were ever asked about their parents) two years ago, but more than their mother. Which wasn't much, still, but Katniss was the best sister she ever could ask for.

Sometimes Katniss yelled at her, but she didn't mind because it was always when she'd done something wrong, like forget to milk Lady or something _really _wrong, like 'forget' to go to school (she was the only person who knew that the reason she ever left the door after eight-thirty was because she wanted to stay back and spin around in the kitchen without Katniss, who would tell her a Seam girl couldn't make a career out of dance. It was true. A merchant girl couldn't do it so a Seam girl sure as hell could not).

Sometimes she wished she had the classic deep brown hair of the Seam (she liked her blue eyes, though - she didn't need to change her eyes) to fit in better, to not have to wash it ever.

She also loved fire, but this Katniss knew. She didn't like to mention it because it was embarrassing, but she just loved the way it crackled and licked at the air, begging for more oxygen to grow and the way it glowed through the room and gave everything an orangish tinge. She loved setting things on fire, too, but when flames singed the ends of her fingertips or burnt strands of her hair, she put out the fire immediately.

She hated being hurt, hated being damaged. She thought - and Katniss thought - she was a fragile little thing until she was thirteen.

At thirteen, Primrose Everdeen was plunged into the hardest thing she'd ever had to deal with.

* * *

She stared at the screen in terror, totally unable to look away. She wished she was in her safe place, in Katniss's arms - but Katniss was in the Games and maybe she would never return. She wasn't stronger or smarter than these people. Maybe Finnick would win. He was strong and he seemed smart. And he would get so many sponsors - he _was _pretty damned handsome. The girls at school fawned over him, but it was different for Prim.

She, personally, didn't understand why more girls weren't staring at Rory Hawthorne. Rory had been through a lot of tough stuff - more than her, probably. Almost definitely - they'd lost their fathers on the same day but there were four Hawthorne children. But Hazelle hadn't given up on it all, hadn't given up on her children.

The screen went to static then dark. It was nearly midnight and it was a new moon, so panic fled throughout the square. Shots rang out and soon she found Peacekeeper gloves shoving at her. A voice (Cray's, she assumed) called, "Citizens of District Twelve, get back to your houses. There will be no more showing of the Third Quarter Quell. Anyone still in the square by midnight will be shot on sight."

Prim turned and ran, pushing past people only walking. There was whistling above so everybody looked up to see the lights of planes - tens of them. More whistling, but no more planes. She looked around wildly and saw flames. Flames at the outer reaches of the District, in the Merchants' Quarter. The meadow and the woods and all past the fence seemed untouched.

She tripped and flinched, bracing for impact, but she only felt a body in front of her. She could barely make out Gale's face. "Gale," she breathed.

"Prim," he said back, grabbing her hand. Posy was clutching his leg and walking as fast as she good alongside him. Vick and Rory were walking right alongside each other and Prim knew Hazelle was somehwere near but she couldn't see her. "Where's your mother?"

She shook her head. "She wasn't standing with me."

Then she heard her own name. Someone was shouting it. She instantly recognized the voice. "Mother!" she pushed backwards through the crowd and took her mother's hand. Gale led them all out of the square together.

"They're bombing the place," he said loudly. "In about two hours, everything will be up in flames."

Prim whimpered a little. Her home. All of it, gone. Scorched until it was all unrecognizable. "I'm so scared," Vick said, wrapping his arm around a short, plump woman. Hazelle had been with them the whole time.

She asked what no one else dared to. "What are we going to do?"

"Leave," Gale said. He was heading towards their houses.

"How?" Rory asked, fear plain on his face.

"Through the meadow," he said. He sounded so determined. "People of District Twelve! The District is going up in flames. If you want to get out alive, come to the meadow behind the Seam!" he called, but Prim got the feeling only a few people heard him.

Only eight hundred people came to the meadow. Eight hundred in a crowd of twelve thousand.

They ran away from the burning District, leaving everything they knew behind.

* * *

In the meadow, while they were watching their District burn, Prim was spinning around and trying to feel okay.


	6. Sane

Searing pain. That's all she felt for a long time. It bit at her lungs for hours after she got the call: "We have lost Finnick Odair."

She wanted to scream - no, she wanted to cry- no, she wanted to kill everybody involved. They were supposed to keep him safe and they didn't keep him safe and it wasn't fair and, on the inside, she had already broken apart into a million pieces of sorrow. When they all returned, she only looked at them with disappointment. They looked upon each other with disappointment.

Katniss was the first to comfort her. She held her tight and told her through both of their tears that it would be okay, even though they both knew it was a lie. It was not okay. Nothing could change that. Annie held Katniss tighter, squeezed her hands until they were purple, cried for a long, long time.

She remembered their first kiss, back when she was seventeen, back when she had only just won. She remembered when his grandfather had died and she held him in her arms for hours. She remembered how he told her she wasn't insane, wasn't any of those things the Capitol said she was.

She remembered how they had spent the night before the Quell reaping, when they didn't think he was coming back: curled up together, crying together, taking turns drinking from a little bottle of liquor from the official, Peacekeeper-regulated market.

She cried when she heard he had come out alive. She was strapped to a chair, then, scared and vulnerable, half-submerged in frigid water, and she overheard the man trying to get information she didn't have: "Johanna Mason, Katniss Everdeen, and Finnick Odair have all managed to escape alive." Tears ran down her face, replacing the expression of pain they had left there. He was okay. He would be okay forever, safe. . .somewhere. Somewhere far, far away from all of this. She had heard of the bombings. It wasn't safe to put him back in Four.

And now, all of that was for naught. All of the little victories that they had had as a couple, as Thirteen, meant nothing to her now that Finnick didn't really make it after all. Thirteen would fall without him.

When the pain stopped, it was replaced with an intense feeling of nothingness. She sat at a table for a long while, watching the hustle and bustle of District Thirteen go on in front of her. And then she paced the same corridor aimlessly for a long time after that. And she was lying down when she decided life was no longer worth living, not really, not without him.

He had told her she was _sane_. He made her feel sane. And now he was gone and she didn't feel anything anymore. The Capitol propaganda was right - Annie Cresta was, indeed, insane.

* * *

She sort of got better. She ate on her own, got dressed herself, like a "normal" person. It took her a while to talk, to smile, to laugh. Soon enough, the nothingness was replaced with pain again, then sorrow, and finally, she had a revelation that she would live forever in loneliness.

Annie Cresta took a hairpin from her dresser in the middle of the night and slipped from her room. She walked down the hall, straight ahead - not aimlessly as she had for so many days.

As she walked, all of her memories with him flashed through her mind.

_"Why did you volunteer?" he said, and she looked at him through teary eyes. _

_She wasn't looking at him, but through him. He embraced her when she didn't answer for a long moment. "I wanted to be like you." He kissed her, on the lips. He'd never done that before. A tingle rushed through her body._

She stuck the bobby pin in the lock. She looked up at the sign but no words came to her mind. She knew what was in there.

_"I'm not going to let you go," he told her, clutching her hand in both of his. She dangled over the cliff, staring down at the bright-blue ocean of Four's shores. _

_"I trust you," she reassured him, clawing at the craggy rock in front of her._

She pushed the door open, stumbling forward. She looked around her, taking in all of the bright colors, the faraway circles of bright orange. They whirled in her mind, an endless sea. She saw what she wanted and reached for it.

_He slowly unbuttoned his nicest shirt. She slowly unzipped her prettiest dress. When she had let it fall to the floor, she kissed him. Passionate and slow and warm. He wrapped his arms around her waist._

_"Don't go," she said, her tone desperate  
_

_"There are other victors. It might not be me," he said, even though they both knew. Finnick wouldn't let a frail old victor die in his place._

She wrapped her hand around it. Pointed it. She was too afraid.

But life wasn't worth living without Finnick. She hadn't felt like herself since he was gone.

_"I love you," he said for the first time. They were sitting by the seaside, fingers interlaced._

_"I love you, too," she said, and she meant it._

There were tears on her face. Annie Cresta didn't feel emptiness anymore but she didn't feel happiness, only desolation and fear and anger.

It had been two weeks. Finnick Odair was not coming back, not if she waited a million years.

* * *

She slammed the Weapons Room door behind her, pointed the simple handgun. The cold steel barrel rested on her temple and the sweat on her face mixed with tears. Finnick wasn't coming back. There was no reason without him. Nobody else made her feel okay. No one else made her feel _sane_.

In a fit of rage over this thought, she squeezed the trigger.

She expected to scream.

_Bang._

_Silence_.

District Thirteen mourned them together for a long, long time. Annie was buried alongside the empty coffin of her lover, the one who made her feel oh-so-sane.

The one who drove her insane.

At least they were gone together.


End file.
